


An Outreached Hand

by WDW



Series: Stanuary 2018 [2]
Category: Ghost Trick: Phantom Detective, Gravity Falls
Genre: Cats, Gen, Ghosts, Major Character Undeath, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-03-14 15:16:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13592796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WDW/pseuds/WDW
Summary: On a cold winter's day in 1982, Stan Pines shows up at his brother's door with two cats tucked in his jacket and no heartbeat in his chest.(A sort-of Ghost Trick AU, but requires no previous knowledge of that to read.)[Written for Stanuary Week 2: Trouble]





	1. lose your soul

**Author's Note:**

> All my Stanuary ideas are strange premises. Things will make sense by the end of this, but I'll include an explanation of the relevant parts of Ghost Trick in cipher in the end note. 
> 
> (Which you shouldn't read unless you're really, REALLY confused because it completely spoils both Ghost Trick and certain moments in this fic. Cipher is the name of the main character of GT.)
> 
> Title is from a relevant scene in GT.

Stan Pines has always been a sucker for bad decisions.

Not even the one-off mistakes that he could at least _try_ to recover from, like splurging his last five bucks on diner pie, or denting his bumper on a terrible parallel park. Instead, he had made his brother hate him. That had lead to everything else that came afterwards - getting himself thrown out of his home and disowned from his family, getting banned from several major states, and involving himself with some people he really, really shouldn't have involved himself with.

The last one's the important bit.

Sure, there's been a whole slew of terrible choices and awful plans that have characterized the past two years of his life, he's not denying any of that. But the last one's what got him where he is now: kneeling in a secluded part of town with his hands crossed behind his head, and a gun trained on the square of his back.

Stan had just turned twenty a few days ago, and he hadn't even had the chance to celebrate. Or even to let the fact sink in that he had officially entered the second decade of his life without achieving fame or riches - or even getting his brother to forgive him.

He thinks he probably never will. He's here instead, begging for his life from someone he couldn't even see.

It seems unfair in a way. He hadn't known he had been edging on another guy's territory. He didn't even know there _were_ territories carved out around these parts. Most importantly, however, Stan had no idea people here would actually send someone _after_ him.

Somehow, he figures, he doesn't think the guy about to shoot him cared much about any of that.

"You really don't have to do this," Stan begs, and every word burns on its way out. Despite his best efforts, he feels a wet prickling at the corners of his eyes. The rush of shame that comes with it just makes the feeling worse. He comforts himself with the knowledge that the people who find his body will notice that his blown out brains much more than any tears on his face.

The silence that falls after that is stifling. Despite it, despite everything, no reply comes.

Stan's grasping for straws at this point, and he knows it. "Tell Johnny I _get_ it, alright?" He says all in a rush. "Or Willy. Ben. Whoever the hell sent you after me. I'll - I'll be outta here in an hour, just watch. You won't see me ever again."

Still nothing.

It's hard to breathe. "I've never done anything to ya," Stan stammers, and it sounds stupid even as he says it. But he has to try. "I've got nothing to do with this. _Please._ "

The guy laughs. It sounds strange, high-pitched and shrill, not like anything that should come out of a human throat.

"Oh, Stanley Pines, you are _hilarious_!"

Stan jerks at that, and he instinctively turns to look at who the _hell_ this was that knew the name he hadn't gone by since he was 18.

The click of the gun's safety stops him in his tracks.

Slowly, deliberately, he turns his head back around to look forward.

He's sweating hard, and when the night's wind blows over him, Stan feels it cold on his back. He doesn't know how this person knew his real name. He had been calling himself Steve Pinington for his entire time in this state, and he had actually been careful about keeping a low profile this time around.

But even Stanley Pines hadn't done anything that would make some crazy person want to _actually_ kill him. Maybe just metaphorically. Maybe.

Just then, there's a rustle of movement behind a dumpster to the left. Stan hears the unmistakable irritable ' _miaow_ ' of a cat roused from its sleep.

The man behind him shoots it, almost casually.  The gunshot echoes deafeningly in the enclosed space, and Stan would be covering his ears if he's any less terrified of losing his life.

The dumpster goes quiet.

For a long moment, he doesn't know how to react.

"What the fuck," Stan says blankly, a cold numbness spreading in his veins. "Why - why the fuck did you _do_ that?"

"That language is entirely un _called_ for, pal! What if a kid heard?"

There's a grin in the maniac's voice. "Or two?"

He still can't make any sense of the trigger happy lunatic pointing a gun at him, but Stan feels a sudden indignant anger begin to mix with his numb disbelief. It's not really logical, and it isn't as if he didn't _know_ the guy who was about to shoot him in a dark alleyway wasn't actually, y'know, a good person.

But there's just something about this that really, _really_ pissed him off.

"You didn't have to do that," he says slowly. "You really didn't have to - that cat didn't do anything to you. It wasn't _gonna_ do anything to you, you sonuvabitch. It was just a damn _cat_."

"What can I say?" The man with the gun says conversationally. "I just don't like it when stupid fleshbags blunder into places they shouldn't be."

His tone gets dark and somehow even _more_ pants-shitting terrifying. "I mean, can you _blame_ me after what happened last time?"

Stan doesn't think.  He really should have. 

"...What happened last time?" He asks stupidly.

The gun goes off with a sharp crack. Stan's whole body jolts forward with the impact.  For a split-second, he chokes on nothing.

He stumbles forwards a few steps, dazed and stumbling and suddenly, alarmingly tired. It feels like someone had hit him right in the shoulder with a baseball bat, but there's no pain at all.

Just a warm wetness on his hand, and a vivid crimson blossoming at the corner of his sight.

Maybe it's the shock, but it's only then that he puts the pieces together.

"Geez, woulda thought these things would be easier to aim, seeing how casually you all kill each other! Guess humans just can't do anything right, huh?"

When Stan turns around, still clenching the new hole in his body like he can stop it from bleeding out because he can't think of anything _else_ to do, all his muddled mind can register is the man's yellow-slitted eyes.

"Just hang on tight, Fez!" The _thing_ hollers, already raising the gun it held loosely in its hands.

Stan stumbles backwards a step, then two, because his legs feel too weak to run on. It's no use, that much is obvious. Nothing he's done has ever been of any use. He's going to die here, and there is nothing he can do to change that.

Over the loud thumping of his heart in his ears, he hears a hissing _pop_.  It comes from somewhere up in the sky, above all of their heads.

Stan looks heavenwards, and his heart stops at the sight of it.

Whatever it is, it's stunning. The light that's coming off of it is near blinding, and small glowing shards burst momentarily off from the main path before fading into the darkness of the night.

Stan has to blink, again and again, against the wetness in his eyes. He can't look away, it's so beautiful.

He thinks maybe it's a shooting star, and the thoughts that burst into his mind at that realization makes him want to tear up, maybe just have a good ol' cry. Right here, right now, with a dead cat in the dumpster behind him and a lunatic who isn't gonna miss shooting him again. Thinking about everything he's hoped for in the past two years, everything that he won't ever be getting.

Stan wonders if the cops will call his parents, when they find what's left of him. He wonders what Ford would say when he finds out. If he'd say anything at all.

He takes a wobbly step forward, towards the light. He knows he's getting closer to the gun and the monster in human skin that's wielding it. But it feels like he's in some kind of dream - the world just doesn't seem real the way it is now.  He just needs _this_.  

One of the lights that the star has left behind is getting bigger. There's a eerie whistling sound that's increasing in volume by the second, like something's whizzing through the air at high speeds.

Stan doesn't notice in time that it's coming at him. He doesn't think he would've moved even if he did.

Two things happen in very quick succession.

He hears a loud shriek of fury, and words that he cannot make out over the roar of his own blood in his ears.

Despite that, all of that cacophony of noise, he finds that he can hear a soft, plaintive mewing sound from the dumpster behind him. It's sad, kind of mournful.

Kittens, left behind. It makes a pretty horrifying amount of sense.

But at the same time, the sound comes strange, echoed. In some eerie kind of stereo. 

He's confused, for a moment. It's the last thing he thinks.

There's a sharp, cutting pain then, one that punches deep in his chest. Right to the core of him. If he was certain about anything at all related to anatomy, Stan would say he feels it right in his heart.

There isn't time to react. He lets out a breath he doesn't remember holding. And then, he's falling forward.

Just before everything goes black, Stan gets it.

He thinks, _oh_.

_They're twins._


	2. into the lion's den

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hopefully things make a bit more sense this chapter!

_Hi! Who are you?_

_...._

_What's your favorite thing to eat?_

**i don't know**

**i don't know**

 

**_i̘̤̯͇̼̜̭̤̔̇́̓̿ d̛͈̮̮̞̤͌̽̈̍ǫ̴̛̞̺̗̝̬̤̐͂̎̿̈͛̿̚͜n̸̪̗̜̥̙̜̂͐͑͜͟͞͞'̵̛͎̣̯̠̥̗̭̩͔́̓͑̐͌̚ͅţ̴̦̼͖͕̙̞̋͂̃̇̾̑̇̈́͘͢ ḳ̷̬̪̃̎̐̆̕͟͢͝ņ̡͇̮̖̖̻͗̏̀̇̈͟ͅö̞͈̥̪̘́̆̏̓͂̾w̨̠̟̖̫̫̱͉̎̒̂̅͋̂͗̒͠͞.̸̡̝̬̞̹̮̋͆̈͂͒̒̾͘͜͡͝_ **

**_̵̨̛̣̻̱̮̠̻͎̣̻̎̀̽̇̀̏͛̑̈́_ **

 

 

_Oh.  That's okay, we don't know much either! We just know that -_

_that. uhm. oh!_

_that we live here!_

I don't trust that _._

_Pssh, what_ do _you trust, bro-bro?_

**who ?**

_That's my brother! He's a total dum-dum head and he likes getting into trouble._

I do _not_!

**brother ?**

_Oh, are you a brother too? An invisible one?_

**not your brother**

**i**

**i had a brother**

 

 

**ha҉v̢e͟**

_Is he with you?_

**no i**

**i don't**

**i don't know where he is. now.**

**(it was a real long time ago.**

**i think)**

_That's so sad!_ I'm _getting all sad thinking about it. Isn't this sad, bro-bro?_

...a little. I still don't think we should trust it.

_Oh!! I have an idea!! You should stay with us until you find him!_

**i don't. i don't know.**

**i feel**

**so .**

**.**

 

**c̨̢̙̮͙͖̊̊͋̈̆͑̉̌ͅȯ̜̭͇͍̋͗̋̐̊͘͜͝͡l̶͍͉̻̩̲̮͎͚̹̣̃̀͒̆́͞d̡͖̣̣̬͌̏̈́̿̅͊̍͌̚**

 

_You should snuggle with us, that's what me and my bro-bro do to keep warm now._

After mom got cold.

**snuggle**

**?**

_I can't see you. But squeeze in! There's space for you with us!_

**okay**

**if there's s̷̬͖̖͖̯̗͚̹͆͒̈̇̓̇̕͜p̶̨͚̠̫̳̩͇̒̒̒̇͝a̧̡̝͎͎̣͇̺̮̎͊̅͐̎̇̐̑̕͡c̛̭̻͙̹͋́̈̈́̉̾͟͝e̶̢̝̗̯͔̦̺̺͇̦̓͗̇̀͡͠**

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

_1982_

In hindsight, Ford really should have noticed something was wrong.

But when he hears the knock on the door and the gruff call of his name, he isn't _really_ thinking. Ford's running entirely on a particularly unhelpful sort of autopilot when he picks up the crossbow with shaking hands and stumbles to where he know his brother is waiting rather impatiently.

About half of his natural instincts tells him calmly and certainly that things were going to be alright now because _Stanley_ was here, and he had always made the problems go away. Meanwhile, the other half is bellowing in his ears and practically shaking him by the shoulders, because yes, Stan did, up until _he_ was the problem.

Between Bill betraying him and Fiddleford going missing and the end of the world as they knew it, did Ford _really_ need to involve an additional wildcard into the mix?

But when he opens the door and sees his brother for the first time in ten years, however, he finds that he doesn't regret it. He can't bring himself to.

For all the emotions Ford is feeling now, surprise isn't one of them. He would be the first to admit that it's illogical and perhaps more than a bit presumptious, but there is some part of him that just took it as fact that if Stan would come. Went right along with water being wet and the sky being blue.

His brother looks just like how he remembers. That really should have been the first clue that something's off.

(Normally, he would think in hindsight, people _age_ over the course of a decade.)

What's new is the quiet exhaustion in his eyes, the waxy sallowness of his cheeks, the bloodlessness of his face. The greyish pallor of his skin is particularly striking against the dark red of his jacket.

Stanley looks like a dead man walking.

His mind is still yelling at him to put the crossbow in his hand to use, that he has to check his brother's eyes _immediately_ , that Bill could have gotten to and manipulated anyone, anywhere and Stanley was hardly the exception to the rule.

The way Stan looks right now, however, Ford just can't. He lowers his crossbow, just a bit.

"What happened to you?" Ford asks, voice small.

"It hasn't been an easy ten years." His brother speaks raspily and low, like he isn't used to talking much at all.

He doesn't know what to say to that. Some part of him wants to apologize, maybe, but he doesn't know what to apologize for. It could be everything, it could be nothing at all. There's a decade's worth of distance between him and the person he used to trust more than anyone else.

Ford feels at once more in control of himself than he has in a very long time, and completely, painfully helpless.

"Thank you for coming," is all he manages to say, and it's not enough. He thinks maybe nothing is enough, but he tries anyways. "Especially on - on such short notice."

Stan blinks, and there's something oddly deliberate and slow about what should be a natural movement.

"Yeah, well," he says, voice strangely light. "I just brought myself and the kids. We don't own much. There wasn't exactly much to uproot."

For a moment, Ford can't make sense of the words.

When his brain finally decided to start working again, he very nearly drops his crossbow. "Kids?" He repeats faintly, unsure whether to go for disbelief or horror. "Stan, you brought kids here?"

"Where else would they be?"

The words still don't compute. "You - you _have_ kids?"

Stan shrugs. "Congratulations," he says sardonically, "you're an uncle."

Ford is about on the verge of fainting on his own doorstep when something - some _things_ \- move around under the bulk of his brother's jacket. Before he can even begin to jump to the worst possible conclusion, two small, furry heads pop up into view right at the neck of Stan's collar.

They regard Ford curiously with identical big watery eyes, and if the situation isn't so dire, it would be entirely comical. One of them, the one with a missing patch of fur on its forehead, meows loudly at him when it looks at him. There is definitely a glint of excitement in its eyes, and for one startled moment he thinks it might just pounce right at him until Stan pushes it back down absentmindedly with a rough pat on its head.

Ford stares.

The cats stare back.

"...You have cats," he says flatly, unsure if what he's feeling is disappointment or relief.

His brother made a quiet hum of agreement.

"Stanley, when you said kids, I thought you meant actual, human children _._ _Your_ children," Ford says accusingly. "Not just - cats."

Stan looks at him in amusement. "Don't listen to your Uncle Ford," he says, lowering his voice, looking down just slightly, and - he's talking to the cats. He really is, isn't he. Ford had never figured his brother to be one of, well, _those_ kinds of people. But today just seemed to be one for surprises.

He takes a deep breath. "Stan..."

"He'll come around some day, kids. He has no idea what he's missin' out on."

"I don't _dislike_ your cats, Stanley," Ford says exasperatedly. "There's no need for this kind of - _shaming_."

"Yeah, well." Stan shrugs.

It's clear that he's not taking this seriously, any of this, and Ford can't help but feel an old flare of familiar frustration. The entire world, universe was at stake here, and his brother seemed to think the whole thing was nothing more than a joke. He had brought his _pets_ along for the ride, even.

It was just - so _typical_ of his brother.

"Stan, this is _important_ ," Ford snaps, irritated despite himself. "Can you please just take things seriously, for once in your life?"

Stanley's face goes terrifyingly blank.

"Sure I can," he says pleasantly, and there's something of a promise in there. "How ser͢iơu̢s͟ do you want me to be?"

There's a new glint in his eyes, one that sets Ford on edge, makes him want to slam the door closed and lock it twice over.

"I," he says haltingly, because it's suddenly so, so hard to speak. "I -"

And Ford can't move when he tries, he can't move, he can't _move_ -

One of Stanley's cats nuzzles him right in the crook of his neck. His brother's expression shifts, the left corner of his lip turning up just so slightly, then relaxing into a distant horrified realization.

\- he stumbles back a single step.

The brief spell is broken. Ford can breathe again.

"I - didn't mean it like that," he says all in a rush, now that he can. He doesn't know what just happened. He must have imagined it, he _must_ have.

"Nah," Stan mutters, not looking him in the eyes. "Sorry. I. I really shouldn't have done - "

He goes quiet. "Forget about it. It's just. We've been through a lot together," his brother says, and it comes out more seriously than Ford would have ever expected. "Me and them. They're - they're not 'just' anything, Ford."

For a moment, Ford just stands there in the doorway, taking in his brother's defiant look. He doesn't know what to say. Something burns when he tries to think about why it's just so hard to speak.

"You should come in," he says at last, suddenly feeling very tired. There's nothing suspicious about his brother's eyes, no slit pupils or sickly yellow sheen. And something made Ford doubt Bill would take at well kindly to cats.

Stan looks at him for a long moment, and nods. He walks in, right past him, without a word.

Ford shuts the door and locks it up, and tries not to think that maybe he had put himself on the wrong side of it.

He watches in silence as his brother kneels down and unzips his jacket, and the cats ease themselves out onto the floor with smooth feline grace.

There hadn't been much chance to look at them in detail outside, but Ford can see now that the animals looked nearly identical with their brown coats and almond-shaped eyes. The one difference he can find is what looks to be a birthmark on the forehead of one of the cats, small furless patches oriented in what seemed a very specific kind of way.

They sniff each other and then the wooden floor curiously, and for a moment, Ford _is_ reminded of the curiosity of children.

"They were keeping each other warm in there," Stan says suddenly. He's watching them, eyes soft. "Got snowy on the drive up here."

One of the cats meows, high and plaintive, pawing at the floorboards. His brother shifts, as if realizing something. "Hey, can't you turn up the heat in here, Ford?"

"Oh, ah." Ford blinks. After a moment of thought, he realizes that he... doesn't actually remember the last time he had done that. "I think I might be out of firewood. Or coal. Or... well, if I have to be honest. I'm not - entirely sure how the heating works here."

Stan looks at him flatly, and shrugs off his jacket without a word. He doesn't shiver or wince, even though he's wearing nothing but a t-shirt underneath. It's as if he can't feel the cold at all.

He puts it on the floor in a heap, and the cats dive into it as if they have done it many times before.

They poke their heads out from underneath, wide eyes blinking, pink noses twitching.

Despite himself, Ford is charmed. "What are their names?" He asks, kneeling down to get a closer look.

His brother blinks, clearly surprised. "Huh?"

"The cats. They - have names, I assume?" Ford tries again.

Stan looks at him for a long moment. "Dipper and Mabel," he says, voice rough. "They're twins."

"Oh!" It all makes sense. "I assume Dipper is the one with the birthmark, then? I _thought_ the shape was familiar. It really is amazing what genetics can do naturally," Ford rambles.

He reaches out a hand tentatively, and the other cat - Mabel - sniffs him in curiosity. For a moment he's irrationally terrified that the animal could somehow tell the abnormality of his six fingers, but it seemed to like what it found because it nudged at his hand with its head, purring loudly.

"Why Mabel?" He asks, entirely curious.

"Dunno. She liked the sound of it. Something about how the words she could make it rhyme with."

It's a strange statement considering 'Mabel' was a cat, but after the moment outside, Ford doesn't push. He likes this moment of calm, even though he's very aware with the pain coming from every part of his body, the several days of sleeplessness weighing down at his eyelids, that it cannot last forever.

"So, uh," Stan starts reluctantly, "Why exactly did you call me up here, Sixer? It's been years. Why - why now?"

Ford pulls away slowly, even as Mabel mews in disappointment. It can't be helped. He had already wasted enough time for sentimentality's sake. .

"It's a long story," he says, "and I'm not sure where to start. A... a lot of things have happened since the last time we've seen each other, Stanley. You wouldn't believe half of it, but they're all true. They really happened. I..." Ford swallows heavily. "I have gotten myself involved in a great deal of trouble."

Stan lets out a low laugh. There's not much humor in it. "Yeah? What a coincidence."

"It would be easier for you to see for yourself," Ford says.  He steels himself.

"There's something I need to show you downstairs."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> throw questions at me and i'll answer them if they're not spoilery :)


	3. no sign of life

It started off the way this kind of story always does: a John Doe got brought in one day, no identification, nothing on him but the clothes on his back and a couple bills in his pocket. Had a bit too many holes in him to be anything other than dead.

His face didn't match that of any missing persons, not that anyone looked particularly hard. People who got shot up in these parts don't have family or friends looking for them.

This was an odd event, not because of the death or the anonymity - neither was particularly uncommon then and there, especially combined - but because this corpse was, as it was, not _entirely_ dead.

There was no rigor mortis. No rot. But what really sealed the deal was when the coroner finally showed up, and quickly realized that the incisions he made wouldn't stay open long enough for him to do the autopsy.

There was no avoiding the fact then. Something terrifying was going on - or something truly miraculous.

(Then again, the only difference between the two had always been about who made it happen.)

This was the exact sort of discovery that got arrangements made and people interested, in the way that never led to anywhere good.

If the body had stayed lying under that sheet for just a few days more, this story would be told very differently indeed.

Because, before anything even gets the chance to happen, the body goes missing.

The security cameras don't catch anything but a stray cat or two before they go down - by chance, their wires bitten through several hours earlier by some rabid wild animal. Between that and the inconsistent time stamps of entry, it's embarrassment for everyone involved. The whole thing gets forgotten pretty quickly.

As far as people were concerned, the corpse might as well have stood up and walked right out of the morgue.

 

* * *

 

_1982_

Stanley looks up at the portal for one long, quiet moment. There's an intensity in his unblinking stare that made Ford feel more than a bit uncomfortable.

"I understand exactly nothing about this," he says at last, voice flat.

"It's a trans-universal -" Ford catches his brother's blank stare, "Ah, a sort of - door to other universes. A hole in the walls of our dimension, you could say."

"Huh. And what's this hole in the universe doing in your basement?"

Ford opens his mouth, and shuts it again. "I created it," he says at last.

Stan just looks at him, flat judgement in his eyes.

He colors slightly at that. "To unlock the secrets of the universe!" Ford defends himself, waving a frantic hand. "I assure you, there are _plenty_ of valid reasons to construct a trans-universal gateway. Scientific innovation, yes, but also -"

"Huh," Stan grunts.

Ford falters a bit at that. "But, ah, it does have the potential for... terrible destruction. Possibly, the end of the known universe and everyone living in it. That's - that's actually why I called you up here," he says weakly, turning his lips up into a weak grin. "I needed someone who I can trust entirely, and - well, the decision was quite obvious, after that."

For the first time since they had left the cats in the living room, something like emotion flickers in his brother's eyes. "...Yeah?"

"I shut down the portal," Ford says, all in a rush, "and I have to be sure no one else can activate it again. All the instructions, the plans, are in my journals. And - God forbid - if someone with malicious intent got their hands on all of them, it could mean the end of _everything_." He swallows. "I've been hiding them the best I can, and I... just have one left."

He pauses, steeling himself to say what needed to be said. His fingers clench hard around his journal for one panicked moment before he succeeds in forcing himself to hold it out to Stan.

"I need you to take this book and go far, far away," He finishes breathlessly. "As far away from here as you can. Somewhere you will never see me -" _and by transition,_ he thinks, _never come into contact with_ Bill "- ever again."

His brother looks at him quietly.

"Please," Ford begs.

Stan glances down at the journal in Ford's trembling hands, and for a moment, his face is cast in shadow. He doesn't speak, or move, or even seem to _breathe_ for a long and terrifying moment that seems to stretch towards infinity.

Ford can't predict at all what his brother will say or do, and that sudden realization hits him harder than it really should.

"Sure," Stan says easily. "I can do that."

And he plucks Ford's journal right out of his frozen hands and tucks it under his arm, as casually as anything.

Ford just stands there for a moment. He can't even begin to process the reason behind his own startled hesitation.

He... didn't expect this to be easy. He didn't expect this to go like _that_.

"Stanley, are you -" _sure_? Ford doesn't say, _can't_ say because he needs his brother to do this for him. There is no one else who can. Still, there's something heavy in his gut and painful in his chest that makes him want to, more than anything else.

Maybe he's hoping Stan would change his mind.

His brother shrugs, slow and languorous. "I have time," he says, something deeply bitter in the tone of his voice.

Ford feels lost. This was exactly how things were supposed to go with Stanley, which meant it was also entirely unexpected. He lowers his hands and clasps them behind his back so he doesn't have to see them shake, and clears his throat.

"Do you," he tries, "do you need anything before you go? Food? Money? I... don't have much of either in the house, but if you need it, I can -"

"It's been a long trip up here," Stan interrupts, shifting ever so slightly. "The kids are tired, even if they didn't show it back there. We could do with a few days settled down. Some food and water for them, maybe. I can swing by the town grocery store and get it myself."

Despite himself, Ford recoils, his mind already conjuring up dozens of different consequences that would come from his brother staying that much longer here, the vast majority of them starring the demon that possessed his body whenever he slept.

" _No,_ " he blurts out without meaning it, his thoughts whirring incoherently in his head. Because Bill had hurt him as much as he could while keeping him functional, because he _needed_ him like that.

Fiddleford had not been nearly as lucky.

He doesn't want to think what the demon would do to Stanley and his ki - _cats_ if he had the opportunity. Without any knowledge of Bill and what he was, they would be easy prey. They had no _idea_ who or what they were even up against.

He hadn't thought this through at all. And just like that, he makes the decision.

Stan blinks once. "I wasn't asking," he says bluntly.

"I - nevermind that," Ford whispers hurriedly. "There's one thing you need to know, _now_." He keeps his voice low and his words quick, even though he _knows_ that would do nothing to stop Bill from listening in if he really wanted to. "You cannot trust _anyone_ with yellow, slitted eyes."

His brother goes still.

"Check for them on everyone," Ford continues, and he doesn't even _realize_ he has moved closer, that he is holding onto Stan's shoulders like their lives depended on it. "On every _thing_ you might encounter. Even - even if that person is me. Stanley, do you understand?"

Stan just looks at him. "This guy with yellow, slitted eyes," he says finally, voice unreadable. "He happens to laugh like a lunatic? Likes violence a bit too much?"

The ball drops. Ford lets go and scrambles backwards to a safe distance.

"You - know him?" He asks weakly. "You've _met_ Bill?"

"So that's his name, huh?" There's a dangerous quality to Stan's voice as he takes a step forward. "You got a current address for him too?"

Already, Ford is fitting together the pieces he has into a picture he does not like at all. Bill had made some sort of contact with Stan, and while it was clear that the contact had been minimal - considering his brother hadn't even known the demon's _name_ \- it did not bode well for either his or Stan's chances at a future without Bill's manipulations.

There's a heaviness in his gut that might just be guilt. He never wanted his brother involved in this way. He never wanted to his brother in this kind of danger.

"Stanley, you can't go looking for him."

"Yeah, and why not?" Stan demands, baring his teeth. "Does it have anything to do with how _you_ know this guy?"

Ford flinches. His brother is obviously angry, and he would have felt relieved at seeing the familiar way that emotion twisted Stan's face if it isn't so directed at _him_.

"I can't tell you anymore than I already have." He knows too well the dangers that came with forbidden knowledge. "You just need to get as far away from here as you can. This isn't your battle to fight. This - this has nothing to do with you."

Stan chokes out a disbelieving laugh. "This has nothing to do with me? Sixer, you have no _idea_."

He's moving closer, taking a confident step forwards for each and every one that Ford stumbles back. There's a glint in his eye, something about the way he looms, how it suddenly feels so much harder to keep stumbling backwards that _terrifies_ Ford beyond logic.

"I - I don't know what you're _talking_ about, Stanley," he stammers even as he tries to make sense of his brother's outburst. "You need to -"

"You don't know anything about me, Ford," his brother hisses.

The light in the basement flickers.

"You haven't known anything about me for the last t̷e͏n _ye͠a̛rs_."

Stan's close, _too_ close. "Stanley," he tries, voice cracking. "I didn't... I'm -"

"Is it in this journal of yours?" Stan demands, brandishing the object in question.

Ford's heart sinks.

"Don't look so surprised, _Sixer_. That's what you've always done, right? You trust your books and your secrets more than anyone else." His tone is biting. "More than _me_."

"Don't open that," Ford pleads, voice hoarse. "Stanley, you don't understand, you can't read that!"

Because the moment he does, its contents will become a part of his brother's memories. And Bill didn't _need_ the actual physical book, being the creature of the mind that he was. All he needed was access to someone who knew what was in it.

If his brother read that journal, he would be a target for the rest of existence.

" _Make me_ ," Stan growls, and flips the journal open.

Ford lunges forward before he's even thinking, driven by a heady mixture of adrenaline and terrified panic.

He collides hard with his brother's torso but he doesn't even feel the pain or shock of impact, he's too busy grabbing for the book, frenzied and manic, like a life - _Stan's_ life - depended on it.

And just like that, they're brawling on the ground.

It's entirely undignified and certainly a ridiculous thing for two grown men to be doing, and while Ford knows he's landing some punches and _definitely_ feeling a few punches as well, for about five whole minutes he has no idea what's actually happening on a higher level.

Maybe it's the element of surprise or the power of adrenaline, but at the end of it, he gets his hands back on his journal.

Ford clutches it to his chest protectively, his breath coming in with big ragged gasps, and watches Stan pick himself back up into a kneel.

His brother's teeth are bared as he stares Ford down. His eyes glint an eerie pale blue in the light of the portal's machinery lights.

"I didn't want to do this," Stan says, voice cold, and reaches forward.

And suddenly, Ford can't move at all.

He's practically pinned to the ground by some kind of invisible, oppressive force that's almost physical in its strength. It's the same feeling from the doorstep, and just like then, he doesn't know what it is or why it's happening.

(...But he does, doesn't he?

After all, there's just one common factor.)

Stanley's hands close on the journal.

There's only one thing that he can think to do.

"I'm sorry, Stanley," he says quietly, and his brother goes deathly still. "I shouldn't have let Dad kick you out."

Ford takes a breath. "I shouldn't have tried to leave you behind."

Stan's eyes go wide with disbelieving surprise. The pressure alleviates for a split second.

It's just enough time for Ford to kick Stan squarely in the chest and send him careening wildly backwards. He catches a glimpse of his brother's face, just enough for Stan's look of furious betrayal to sear itself completely into his memory.

His brother crashes heavily into the side of a piece of portal machinery, and -

\- there's a sizzling sound.

That's his first clue that things had gone horribly wrong.

And then his brother lets out a kind of pained _wail_ , keening and desperate in a way that fit an injured alley cat more than a human being. He lurches forward, clutching at his shoulder with a single hand, and there's something strange about the unrestrained, unnatural way his limbs swing.

Ford can see now the vivid red brand on the pale skin of Stan's back. He gags at the combination of that sight and the moist, acrid smell of burnt human flesh-and-hair that had so quickly filled the air.

"You _hurt_ me," his brother rasps as he stumbles towards him, his steps loose and helpless like he's losing control of his body entirely.

But when he catches the expression on his brother's face, he realizes with mounting horror that it isn't of anger or fear. Instead there is a kind of wonderment, and - a strange kind of joy.

Ford takes an involuntary step backwards. He's not sure what he's seeing, but something tells him that it's something he will be seeing in his nightmares for years to come.

Then, Stan goes still. He stands quietly, swaying slightly.

Maybe it's the light, but it looks as if his eyes are glowing - the same pale blue from earlier, the same pale blue of the activated portal.

"What did you do to me, Sixer?" His brother asks, voice hollow.

And then he slumps over, his frame crumpling like newspaper in the rain.

For one long moment, the basement laboratory is entirely quiet but for the click-clacking of machinery and the hitching gasps of Ford's breathing.

 _Only_ Ford's breathing.

"Stan?" He asks into the silence, voice trembling. " _Stanley?_ "

There is no reply. The dark heap on the ground doesn't move at all.

The next few minutes are a blur. Ford remembers running forwards and kneeling down next to his brother. He remembers landing hard on his sore knees. Most of all, he remembers that he gets no response when he shakes his brother by the shoulders, and distantly registering that Stan's skin is cool - too cool - to the touch.

"No," he says out loud, voice trembling. There's no one to hear it, but he says it anyways, repeating it over and over to himself like some kind of a prayer. "No, no, _no_ -"

It isn't possible. That _couldn't_ have been enough to - not for someone like Stanley.

( _he looked half-dead already,_ whispered a voice in his head, _he must had been so_ tired _._

 _and the human body could be so,_ so _fragile_ -)

When he reaches out with a trembling hand and feels for a pulse with two fingers, there is nothing.

Ford doesn't know how long he stays there bent over his brother's body, even after his legs had lost feeling and the cold had penetrated through the thin layers of his wrinkled coat. He's too numbed by shock to even cry. There's just a stinging sourness in his mouth and a weight at the base of his gut that gets heavier by the moment.

And then, a lightbulb shatters without warning, its glass pieces sprinkling onto the ground like rain. It's entirely unexpected and impossible, but it's just enough to break Ford out of his trance.

They can't stay down here forever, he realizes.

Even if he wants to.

It takes effort to haul his brother's body up and over his back, but much less so than he expected. Stan is surprisingly light, and it makes his mouth go dry to realize that while his brother had always been so much bulkier than him when they were both children and then adolescents, it is no longer true.

If Ford doesn't know better, he would say that Stan still had the frame of a teenager.

He stands up, swaying only slightly, and tries not to think about the dead weight on his back.

"Let's go, Ley."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahahahahha i should've known there's no way i could let this story end at 3 chapters. we are in for a L O N G F I C my friends
> 
> (also, i'm /me/. there's no way the sigil could ever just be a throw-away in a fic i'm writing. So There
> 
> and, where's the fun if stan's not actively suffering?
> 
> shhh i know that going by ghost trick canon rules, stan can't be injured in any way. but then, a magical protection - cough /anti-possession/ cough - sigil isn't exactly /normal./)
> 
> why yes, i do have finals coming up and will be spending approximately 30 hours on a project in the next three days. but i write fic when i'm stressed and!! my secret is i'm always stressed!!


	4. never imagined you dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome to the next part of this wild, wild ride :)
> 
> feat. mistakes, miscommunications, and misunderstandings
> 
> the ghost world shows up in ghost trick - it's a place outside of time where spirits hang out, where they're visible and can communicate with each other or with living creatures/people through thought. they can also choose their appearances based on their personal image of themselves.

Ford lays his brother's body down, gently on the single battered couch of the living room.

After a long moment of hesitation, he leans over and shuts Stan's eyelids with two trembling fingers. Something about the cool waxiness of the contact makes Ford's skin crawl and his stomach twist sharply.

He glances up slightly, force of habit, and his brother's face is right _there._ That's when he realizes with slow-mounting horror that Stan's expression is still contorted in agony, frozen into a final silent scream.

**you did this**

\- and Ford jerks away, staggering back a few steps with his eyes shut tightly, as if he could physically block out what he had just seen.

His foot slips, and he lands painfully on the wooden floor. The room is quiet except for the sound of his own ragged breathing, and it is as Ford sits there - eyes still clenched closed, heart hammering in his chest - that he remembers the book he still held tightly in his shaking hands.

The book he had killed his brother for.

When Ford looks down at his journal, he sees his own horrified expression reflected back at him.

Despite himself, he's reminded of the furious betrayal that had contorted Stan's face, back during their fight. When he had reached out for the journal and Ford hadn't known what to do, when Ford had said the first thing that came to mind that would make his brother stop - something he had more or less _meant_ , to some degree and in some circumstances and maybe with a few dozen stipulations.

That he had ruined nonetheless.

Because he had said it, but he had also _used_ it.

**that was low**

And now his brother was -

_Was._

He hadn't shed tears because of, _for_ Stanley since the night it all began.

There are emotions that Ford has been building up for ten years now, all dammed up in some deep and distant part of him that - he tells himself - doesn't need to regret. Every ignored uncertainty and suppressed thought, of _where is he_ and _is he alright_ and _could I have done something,_ slipping and sliding over each other for an entire decade. He's avoided them for so long that he has wondered if they were even still there.

He's not wondering that anymore.

Sitting on that dusty wooden floor, clutching the journal so hard he thinks his fingernails leave dents on the cover, Ford begins to cry.

He recalls the night Stanley left, the desperate hope in his eyes until Ford shut the curtains on him in more ways than one. He remembers being so desperately happy to move into his first college dorm even though there was no privacy at all and his roommate claimed to be able to speak in tongues, because it had become impossible to sleep in his own room without the rumbling snores of his brother slumbering in the bunk bed below his.

And then, even before he realizes it, he's thinking about the months of paranoia and fear. Of waking up one day splattered with blood he hoped desperately was his, and deciding finally that he couldn't take anymore.

That there was just one person who would understand, who would realize what he was really asking. Who could help him in this one final way.

And, how wrong it had all went.

**oh**

He doesn't know how long he's there, just that the tears coming down his cheeks don't seem like they'll ever stop. It's difficult to find a reason to do anything else.

And then, he hears a quiet mew.

Ford looks up, and his heart breaks.

With everything that had happened downstairs, he had almost forgotten about Stanley's cats.

But there they are now, padding over with a strange kind of synchronity, staring between him and the body of their owner with innocent, oblivious curiosity.

Before Ford can think to do or say anything at all, they lie down at the foot of the couch. One - Mabel, he thinks numbly - bats playfully at the limply hanging hand, entirely unperturbed by the lack of reaction.

They didn't understand.

 _Of course they didn't_ , Ford chides himself.

For all Stan had doted on them, they were still just animals.

"Hey," he says, and is startled to realize how rough and gravelly his voice has become from his earlier breakdown. "Come over here, kids."

They turn to look at him at once, and for the first time he notices their slit pupils, how their green eyes glint so vividly yellow in the shine of the light.

Ford scrambles backwards, terrified despite himself.

**don't even think about it**

He stops, rooted right there to the spot, and watches nauseously as the cats clamber easily onto the couch with their nimble feet and then, to perch on Stanley's unmoving form.

The cat, Dipper, settles in right on top of Stan's chest, inches away from where his face is still contorted in pain and fear, eyes open and staring into nothing. It blinks down at Ford, its large eyes flickering.

Then it lets out a single mournful wail and - Ford knows it's not at all logical, that the animal mind is limited, but he thinks it _knows_ what he did.

He doesn't know what to do. Some entirely senseless part of him wants to beg for forgiveness.

Instead Ford says, "Kids, I'm right over here."

Before he can even begin to process his own words, the cats turn to stare at him as one.

A beat later, Mabel leaps down, and there's something very deliberate about the way it pads over to Ford, with a searching look that did not belong in the eyes of a cat.

Ford's mouth goes dry. He wants to crawl backwards and away, to get up and run, to do anything so he does not have to _be_ here. But he's rooted to his spot by a potent mixture of guilt and terror, and even as the animal nudges him with its furry head, he can only stare.

That's when his hand reaches out of its own accord and scratches behind Mabel's ears in a smooth, familiar motion.

The way the cat reacts to it, with a satisfied purr and a languid stretch of its back, it's clear it has happened many times before.

"Sorry about the scare, pumpkin," his own mouth mutters. His expression is twisted into a wry grin that feels alien on his face.

Ford's breath hitches in his throat.

It's familiar, this nauseous sensation of being a passenger in his own body, the startling loss of control that came with being _used_.

All at once, he understands what's going on.

He jerks his hand away and scrambles back before landing painfully onto his own elbows, gasping for breath. Ford turns his head rapidly, up and left and right, as if he could find what - _who_ he was searching for through sufficient repetition.

He isn't sure how he didn't notice earlier, but the world looks different, as if every shade of color had been drained from it to be replaced by a flat monochrome filter.

**you've really scre - messed things up this time, huh sixer?**

There is something strange about the Mindscape as it is now, with an odd blue tinge that infused every part of his surroundings. But there is nowhere else this could be, this place between physical reality and the incorporeality of thought and dreams.

And with that, there is only one possibility for who this is.

Ford pushes himself onto his feet and stands up, back straight and defiant.

" _Bill._ "

There's a long, almost offended pause.

**yeah, nope**

**and guess what**

"That was low, Ford," his own mouth says out loud, in a voice that isn't his. "What you pulled back there, bringing up Dad. That was real da - arn _low_."

And just like that, it becomes hard to breathe.

Oh. _Oh_.

He knows that voice, knows it better than his own.

He - he hadn't expected this. His thoughts muddle up like oil paints, impossible to turn into coherent words.

"Stanley," Ford croaks, slow and disbelieving. He feels at his own chest frantically, as if he can find some evidence there of what is currently happening. "But you're - you're _dead_."

"I've _been_ dead, you dingus."

"You - you're a ghost," he stutters, horrified realization spreading through him slow and raw. "You're _possessing_ me right now. Speaking through my body."

"Yeah, well. Not like mine is an option now, considering what you did to it."

Ford flinches at the reminder.

"I didn't -" he tries, takes a deep breath. And another. "Stanley, I didn't mean to -"

"- You didn't mean to fake that apology?" Stan retorts acerbically, using Ford's own mouth. It's an odd sensation, cutting himself off. "Or you didn't mean to _brand_ me?"

"No! Yes! I - I wasn't _lying_ , Stanley. I meant what I said, I just -"

"- used it to get the upperhand?" His brother laughs, and the unhappy sound of it ricochets around Ford's eardrums like a bullet. "Look, Ford, if ya wanted me to actually _believe_ that you meant what you said, you really shouldn't have gotten that kick in."

Ford goes quiet for a long moment. When he finally opens his mouth it's to say something he has needed to say for a long time.

Stan beats him to it. He stretches widely in Ford's body, lazy and long. Like he's trying to get comfortable.

"But I get it," his brother says casually. "You did what ya had to do, right?"

 _No_ , Ford can't say.

"So now, I'll do what _I_ have to do."

There's a darker tone to his brother's voice now, one that makes his heart sink. "You cost me a body, _Sixer_. Seems like you should give me a hand." He wriggles Ford's hand to demonstrate his point.

"...Or, y'know, a bit more than that."

There's something familiar about what Stanley is saying, that twinges at some part of his memory that he had long tried to forget.

And just like that, it clicks.

_Then it's a deal. From now until the end of time, Sixer!_

"No," he says immediately, staggering backwards despite himself, unable to hide the fear in his voice. " _No_."

Stan takes over, easy as anything, and stands their feet flat and still on the wooden floor.

"...See, Ford," he says, all matter-of-fact. "The thing about that is, I'm not _asking_."

The worst thing is, Ford knows that.

With the level of control Stan could already exert over his body, even against his own direct will, there is no doubt that... if his brother wants to take over entirely, he _can_.

There iss nothing Ford could do about that, not without anyone else's assistance, not with nothing in the house with anti-possession powers - other than the sigil that had started this entire mess in the first place.

 _And maybe - it would serve him right_ , he thinks guiltily.

His actions had damned Stan to a short, miserable existence. It was only a matter of time before he was driven into mindlessess by an obsession with whatever he desired most in life, as all ghosts did.

And once that time came, Ford would have much bigger concerns than just being _possessed_ by the spirit of his dead brother.

(Because he remembers easily the glinting anger in Stan's eyes back during their fight, the barely suppressed menace his brother had emanated from the moment he had arrived on Ford's doorstep.

He has a sneaking suspicion he knows exactly what Stanley wants - and what's more, who he wants it on.)

At least, those are the clear, logical thoughts he wants to have.

Right now, Ford is nowhere near them.

Instead, he's thinking - remembering - about the months of fear and regret, the experiences that had taught him how it felt to have his body puppeted by a sadistic force of nature.

(What would make this any different?)

Despite himself, he starts to tremble.

That's when he hears a voice - high, indignant, and... scolding?

_Stan, stop messing with Uncle Ford! Can't you see he's high... hype..._

The speaker breaks off sheepishly. _Uhm, breathing really hard?_

Just like that, Ford's body is his again.

He turns around slowly, hesitantly, and freezes.

Because - he's losing his mind.

He _has_ to be, because there are two children sitting on the floor of his living room who certainly were not there before.

A little boy and a little girl, their cheeks round with baby fat, neither of them looking a day over twelve years old. They are... not identical, but close, enough so that they had to be directly related. The two have the same nose and face shape and build, and most of all, the same unruly brown curls that stuck up in gravity-defying tufts at the back of their heads.

...The same _Pines_ curls. There is no ignoring that, no matter how much Ford tries.

Because there's an obstinate expression on the girl's face that is entirely, painfully familiar. There's a distinctive gap in her teeth.

For a moment, Ford thinks he's looking at Stanley Pines, age 10, from a reality in which his brother had embraced glitter as a fashion accessory.

She must had been the one who spoke, he realizes.

(Even though he knows that is not _quite_ the right word for it. There is no sound transmitted from any point to another. It's... all thought and emotion and intent, in a way that he _knows_ what has been said without hearing it.)

And the boy, with his oversized square-framed glasses and bomber jacket, looks just like himself as a child - eerily so. The only difference he can see is an odd pattern on the child's forehead, what looked to be a particularly prominent birthmark. He's staring at Ford with wide disbelieving eyes, as if Hanukkah had come early.

Ford wants to cry and laugh at the same time, because this is _exactly_ what this day needed to become even stranger.

 **Kids, that - that was a joke, I swear,** Stan says just a bit petulantly, in that same not-quite voice.

There's something about him now that feels entirely different from earlier, when he had been speaking through Ford's mouth. Softer, looser.

A bit more human.

We all know you have awful jokes, Stan, the boy grouses.

_Yeah, don't think we forgot about the ketchup rat!_

**...Point taken. But trust me, I really don't want to stay in here any longer than I have to.**

He can practically see the grimace on his brother's face. **Feels like it's been two weeks since this body's last had a shower.**

There's nothing wrong with that! Sometimes _I_ don't groom myself for two weeks, the boy offers, in what seems to be an ill-thought attempt at defending Ford.

His sister scoots away from him immediately. Hey!

**You're a pre-teen boy. End of story.**

....Ford is entirely, uncomfortably lost.

At the very least, it seems his brother did not have immediate plans to co-opt his body and/or murder him in any particularly painful ways.

Perhaps, given his shift in personality in the presence of the children, not even at all.

And, the strange thing was, he knows he has _seen_ this before. Not exactly, not even close. But the easy way that his brother had relaxed, his cold, violent anger dying down to something he could almost call grumpiness _,_ and all because of the presence of those -

 _Kids_.

That's the realization that sparks everything else. The pieces are all there, even if reality and logic is standing in their way.

But what place did sense and reason have in the events of the past few hours? How did they hold here?

"You're Dipper," he says blankly, eyes locked on the birthmark on the boy's head. "The _cat_ , Dipper."

The boy fidgets. Um, yes? 

"And - " Ford turns, even though most of him is currently undergoing a mental breakdown. "You must be... _Mabel_?" Even his own words sound ridiculous as he hears them. "You were the one that - nuzzled my hand, when we first met -"

 _Aww, Uncle Ford, you remembered me!_ The girl beams brightly.

Then her eyes widen in realization. _Hey, I got, uhm, 'fine motor controls' now! I can shake your hand for real!_

Even with the unreality of the current situation, Ford flinches automatically at the suggestion.

"I," he begins, taking a hesitant step backwards, already instinctively moving to hide his hands behind his back, "I don't know if that's a good idea -"

Mabel reaches out a small hand excitedly.

 _Six-fingered handshake?_   She asks, wiggling her fingers. All six of them. Ford can't help but stare. _They're the best kind!_

His words catch in his mouth.

"How do you have -" Ford says weakly, and changes his mind. " _Why_ do you have six fingers?"

The girl blinks. _Why not?_

There's something about the matter-of-fact way she says it, that makes his mouth goes dry.

**Shake your niece's hand, you dork.**

Slowly, dazedly, he shakes her hand.

Their fingers slot together perfectly, in a way that Ford had never experienced before. But then again, he had also never shaken hands with another person with six fingers before. With the strangeness of the circumstances, however, he has to wonder if this particular situation counts.

He can't help but stare down, at how her small hand is so entirely enveloped in his slack grip. It feels entirely, terrifyingly solid.

 _See?_ The girl says excitedly.

Ford does. It means more to him than he's comfortable admitting.

Despite that, or much more possibly because of it, he lets go and withdraws his hand hastily.

"Stanley?" He asks frantically, looking around and then to nowhere in particular.

**Yeah?**

"Why - _how_ are your cats human?"

**Easy.  They're not.**

It is possibly the worst answer his brother could have given.

Ford sits down. Takes a breath. Covers his face with his hands.

" _Explain_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (for people who have played through ghost trick:
> 
> since no one has the power to turn back time to four minutes before death and - as a result - no one has been saved from death, i'm messing with the mechanics of the ghost world a bit so i can make the story go the way i want it to. it's a bit broader than just being able to talk to people who have died, to adjust for the existence of the mindscape and demon possession of gravity falls)
> 
> some big questions shall be answered next chapter B)
> 
> i'll be in japan for the next two weeks, however, so it might take a while for me to get it written ;; wish me luck!


	5. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM BACK with massive amounts of cats and angst AND YOU ARE ALL COMING WITH ME!!
> 
> (here is a shorter interlude/flashback before the exposition hits, though i hope this explains some stuff too! this was fun to write but might be confusing to read, might require a closer look than usual. but as always, if anything's confusing, let me know and i will do my best to answer!)

Today is a hungry day.

He knows it the moment he wakes up to a sharp chill in the air and the loud sound of heavy water pitter-pattering over them. It's cold outside, cold _and_ wet, and just the thought of going out there into a world with water all _everywhere_ drew a whimper out of him.

But yesterday had been a hungry day too, an even worse one with cold _rocks_ that fell from the sky and hurt when they hit.

**that's hail for you**

Hail. Ha-ail. He thinks that over a bit and tries his best to remember it, even though he doesn't want _it_ to know that he is.

**i heard that**

Grumble grumble. He thinks it is old and weird.

 **i'm not _old_ ,** it says, clearly annoyed. **you're just a kid**

He doesn't know what it is talking about, but he decides that he is very hungry and wants something to eat. Even if it is a hungry day and there is nothing to eat on hungry days. Even if it is cold and wet outside, and he doesn't like any of that.

**got something in mind that works best on miserable days like this. tell your sister**

Mis-er-a-ble.

**means bad**

Like cold and wet and water everywhere. Hungry days are mis-er-a-ble.

A pause. **you're a quick learner, aren't ya? a**

**regular ol' poindexter**

It doesn't speak again for a long moment.

He thinks it is old and weird and mis-er-a-ble.

**great. you're a joker too**

**now go tell your sister, the earlier we get this going the better**

He does, and he isn't surprised at all when she jumps at the opportunity. His sister trusts it a lot more than he does, and something about that makes him feel a bit weird because before this, they've never felt different about things, _never_.

But they start walking and walking, outside of home and outside of anywhere familiar, walking until they end up somewhere he has never been before. But he also hasn't been many places. He _wants_ to, though, and he scrabbles at it to let him explore!

But it doesn't let him move. Grumble grumble.

His sister sticks her tongue out at him. Stop grumbling, Dip-dop! She says. We're going to learn stuff today. And eat!

That's what it said, and while he trusts it a bit more than he did before because there are a lot less hungry days now after it showed up, Mom never mentioned that there were things like it in the world. While normally that meant he would stay far away from it, he's learned since Mom got cold that there was a lot of things out in the world that she never mentioned.

**trust me, i don't like being hungry anymore than you do**

He thinks for a little bit. He doesn't like it much when it found space with him because sometimes it made him do things he didn't want to do. But it also found him and his sister a place to escape from the ha-il, and found ways for them eat on hungry days. And it being around made his sister happy. So maybe he is okay with it after all.

Okay, fine, he says, and he doesn't grumble this time. I don't smell food. How do we get the food?

**you see those people over there?**

Pee-poe?

**big, tall, standing right there**

Oh. He sees them. He thinks for the first time that he remembers seeing pee-poe before. The night Mom got cold.

He feels a wave of shock that isn't his own.

**the night that -**

And then it stops talking.

He waits for a bit. It's not there. Where are you? He asks.

His sister prods at him. What are you talking about, Dip-dop?

The world goes blue for a moment, and back again.

 **i just - remembered** it says finally, sounding lost. **some**

It's quiet. He doesn't understand, but there's a lot about it that he doesn't understand. I don't smell food. How do we get the food?

That question gets it normal again.

 **...well, that's the magic of it, kid!** and, there's something gleeful about the way it says the words.

**i'm gonna teach you two how to run a _con_**

He doesn't know what any of those words mean.

**...we're gonna get those people to give you food**

Even his sister seems a bit doubtful about that, when he tells her what it says.

Why will they give us food? She asks, pawing at the ground. How do you know they have food? He asks with a whine.

**easy. you know where we are right now?**

No, they chorus.

 **words up there say 'pet shop.' is a place where -** it goes quiet, like it's reconsidering something.

**means rubes around here are gonna _melt_ when they see you two**

To him, they don't actually do anything. When there is no people, he and his sister find shelter under a propped up piece of cardboard to wait. When there is people, walking out of the store with big bags of multicolored _stuff_ , they sit outside with the cold water from the sky falling all over them and _mew_.

All the people look, eyes wide and mouths open in an 'o'. Not all of them stop. Sometimes one people pulls the other people along and they leave quickly. Others approach them with hands outstretched and with purpose, and they run to hide until they have given up.

But it doesn't take long until one people inches close, something in their hand as they crouch down.

They want to run but it says, **hold on**

And they wait, staring as the hand puts something down in front of them, round and smelling of metal and people but also of _food_.

It isn't like any food he had eaten before, brown and mushy, but it's _food_. Between him and his sister, it doesn't last long. He's still hungry when it's all gone.

He mews, a bit pitifully. The people reaches their hand somewhere in their fur and pulls out _more_.

The two of them eat until they're full. He thinks maybe the last time he had felt like that was a very long time ago, before Mom got cold and couldn't feed them anymore.

He's distracted by the food and the fullness when the people puts his hand close and pets him.

He doesn't know what to do. The people is touching him in a way that feels good and familiar, putting pressure at his neck the way Mom did before she got cold.

His sister purrs, and the people bares their teeth and the corners of their lips raises in what looks like a threat but they keep petting them instead of attacking. He thinks he shouldn't trust them because they are a _people_ , but the people had given them food and made them full and he thinks maybe he wants to purr too.

**no**

His paw raises and _it_ unsheathes his claws and scratches the people right on the hand.

The people lets out a high sound, pained and surprised, and moves away from them quickly.

It starts running, away from the people and the 'pet shop' and his sister is confused but she follows them until they reach a quiet place that is away. It's only then that it lets go slightly and he can move himself again.

What are you _doing,_ Dip-dop? His sister demands, pawing at him furiously.

It wasn't me, he says, frantic. It was _it_ and not _me_ and I don't know why -

 **you don't get involved** it says, and there's something very weird about it now.

But, his sister mews, that people was nice and it was giving us _food_ and -

 **you don't get involved because when you get involved, people start knowin' too much about you,** and it's loud, louder than it's ever been, to the point it _hurts_.

**and then you gotta change names. change states, keep runnin' until they finally catch up to you and**

I don't understand, he says, but it doesn't hear him at all.

**corner you in an alleyway**

The world flickers blue.

**and then you -**

It felt like letting out a breath.

 _ **you die**_.

The world goes blue again, and this time it stays.

Then, suddenly, there's a people there, just standing.

He's seen this people before, on that night.

Except now they're red. They're red all over, and dripping.

He and his sister scurry away to hide behind the trashcans, mewing from fear.

But the people is there too, waiting for them.

They don't smell like anything, and there's no sound when they move. They open their mouth, and when they speak they sound like _it_.

**kids, it's**

**it's a long story. but it's me**

He stops trying to run. Just stands there with his sister, shaking.

**i think**

**i think i realized a few things**

They - it pauses.

**kids, i need your help**


	6. pull these old white sheets from my head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am back after Forever, and I have a single chapter that's half the size of the whole fic up to this point! I've hit the longfic groove and I've got a whole plot/ending planned out and ready to go. 
> 
> I've even made a _playlist_ with songs that correspond to the plot ;o;(https://open.spotify.com/user/x137fhbrd2g48h832bx964xpt/playlist/5wxzT9c4UFErjWhlapyc9f) - I've never made one before so let me know if another site is better lmao. But please listen and let me know what you think, hee!

**...You want me to explain.** Stan says slowly, thoughtfully.

He leans back with Ford's body, props himself up with Ford's hands. **Huh.** Bitterness creeps into his voice. _**That's**_ **a first**.

There's an easy fluidity to the way Stan uses his borrowed body. He moves like he's meant to be there.

Ford feels bile burn at the back of his throat.

"Stanley," he says out loud, trying his best to keep his voice steady. He keeps his eyes trained on the ceiling, and makes a very valiant attempt not to think. " _Please._ "

**You sure you wanna know?**

Ford grits his teeth. There's a challenge in his brother's voice, low and deliberate, and despite all logic and rationality, he can't help but rise to it.

Fortunately, he's beaten to the punch.

Stan, Dipper groans, from the very corner of his vision. His arms are crossed, and he's making a face. For a moment, he looks exactly like the human child he's supposed to be. You're _doing_ it again.

It is with some surprise that Ford realizes just how startlingly normal the boy sounds, his voice pitched high with adolescent youth and tinged with no small amount of exasperation. That in particular was a significant feat, considering that up until ten minutes ago, the child had been a particularly excitable _cat._

He fights, almost entirely unsuccessfully, the urge to stare again.

 **I have no idea what you're talkin' about, kid** , Stan says defensively, and Ford doesn't think it's just his imagination that his brother sounds slightly put out. **We're, uh. We're communicating. Just like I said we would.**

But you... weren't actually _saying_ anything , the boy points out, clearly dubious.

A sudden, odd sensation goes down his back, like - like his fur had been brushed the wrong way. Ford blinks.

His brother bristles indignantly. **I said plenty.**

Mabel sticks out her tongue. _Not anything important!_ Either she was entirely oblivious to Stanley's darkening mood, Ford thinks, or she knew it _too_ well to pay it any real heed. _You suck at explaining stuff. I bet me and Dipper could do a_ waaaaaaay _better job than you!_

Her eyes widen. _Wait, we're in the Ghost World now. We_ can _!_

Even from Ford's outsider perspective, it's obvious that his brother is quickly losing control of the situation.

 **Sweetie,** Stan tries, with the air of a man who has already on some level given up hope. **Can you just _give_ me a minute -**

Suddenly, there's a small girl pressed up close and personal to Ford's face, button nose just _almost_ touching his.

 _Hi!_ She says loudly and brightly, right into his ear.

If Ford had any real control over his body, he would have jerked away in a mixture of - shock, mostly, tinged with confusion and a decent dollop of fear. With the leaden weight of his brother's ghost, however, all he can do is stare right back.

It only takes him seconds to realize exactly why he's afraid.

Even though she's very clearly right _there_ , solid and human by all appearances, Ford can't feel the ambient warmth of body heat. There is no sensation of breath on his cheek. Her eyes, clear and bright, glint the same eerie light of forest animals in the night.

If he had any doubts left regarding what these children were, they were gone now.

 _We're cats!_ Mabel says, matter-of-fact. _But sometimes we're people. Only when we want to be, though. Any questions?_

"...Why _?_ " Ford croaks.

The little girl blinks quizzically. _Um. That's a really good question, Uncle Ford. Very eck... ecks... existential!_

He blinks. "...That - wasn't actually what I meant -"

She nudges her brother in the side. _Dip-dop, you got anything?_

Opposable thumbs, Dipper says, after a moment of thought.

 _Oh yeah. We_ do _like having opposable thumbs_ , Mabel says, nodding seriously. _And clothes! Can you be_ lieve _there's no such thing as fashion for cats? The world is missing out, I tell ya!_

"I was actually referring more to the..." He trails off weakly, then recollects himself. " _Why_ are you - cats that are sometimes human? Are you shapeshifters? Some - variation of a werewolf?"

The children blink simultaneously. No, Dipper says slowly, clearly confused. We're cats.

Ford barely manages to resist the sudden urge to bang his head on the nearest flat surface.

"I," he says instead, voice flat, "have never heard of cats that could become human at will."

 _Well_ , Mabel says brightly _, it did take us a while!_ She scrunches her face up. _And we tried really,_ really _hard. But we had been with Stan for years and years when we started trying, and it's just sooo much easier to talk about things when you've both got the same kind of face. And it's all! So! Customizable! I can have fingers! And hands!"_

She waves them excitedly. _"And glitter! ...But I have to think it up because all of this is in our brains and you can't get real glitter in brains without med-i-cal con-se-quen-ces. So I got mind glitter instead!"_

The girl pauses to take a breath that she very clearly did not need and asks, _Do you get it now?_

"...No," Ford says faintly. "I don't believe I do."

 _Oh_ , Mabel says, looking slightly put out. _Well, that's okay! I can just explain again!_

 **No need,** Stan sighs. It's the first sound he had made since the children had yanked the conversation right out of his hands. There might be some irritation or annoyance there, but if there is, it is far outshadowed by the obvious fondness in it. **You've made your point, pumpkin. I'll talk.**

The girl grins innocently.

 **Easiest answer I got is, it's all because of this place we're in,** his brother tells him tiredly. **Logic and reality and sense doesn't... really _exist_ here. **

"This... place we're in," Ford repeats, and for the first time since his brother's vengeful spirit had taken up residence in his mind and body, looks carefully around himself.

He's still in the living room of his home, or at the very least, somewhere that is virtually identical to it. At some point in the past fifteen increasingly alarming minutes, however, it had turned... very blue. His surroundings have become blurred, with a slightly translucent quality to them. There is a deeply surreal quality to it all, and for a moment he feels as if he is having a lucid dream.

The clock on the wall isn't ticking, but this isn't the Dreamscape. He had not fallen asleep. The world is not colored in strokes of monochrome.

And Bill... is nowhere in sight.

Small mercies.

 **I call it the Ghost World** , Stan says in response to his unasked question. **It's... the way ghosts see the world, as far as I know. Somewhere in-between.**

Ford blinks. He had never seen anything like it.

**Here, you look how you think you should. Doesn't matter what you actually are. And the kids...**

"They see themselves as human children," he thinks out loud. It's a bizarre thought. Mindboggling, really, and possibly just a little impossible. It's easy to let himself digress, to question whether the animal brain had capacity enough to _do_ something like this, or why the two defined their age by human standards rather than their own biological realities.

Yet, Bill had certainly made the most out of lax rules of reality within the Dreamscape, and that had only been the space between dreams and wakefulness. Who was Ford to define what was realistic in a place that existed even further beyond human understanding?

But the children - Dipper and Mabel didn't see themselves as just _any_ human children. That much is clear to him from a glance.

Ford's thoughts drift dangerously. By the time he catches himself, it's already too late.

They could not have based their projections on Stan alone, he thinks despite himself. Not with those familiar blocky glasses, oversized on that small face. Or the carefully recreated bomber jacket.

Not with the six-fingered hands that the small girl in front of him had shown off, so proudly and fearlessly.

His mouth goes dry.

 _Stanley had told them about him_. Enough that they would choose to model their own appearances off of him. Enough that they seemed... happy, _excited_ even to meet him.

It should be a revelation. Ford thinks about the dark anger in his brother's expression in their fight down in the basement, the coldness in his voice when he confronted him about Bill and the journal.

But also, about how quickly Stanley had faltered when Ford apologized. How unfairly hopeful he had seemed, for that briefest of moments.

No, the fact is not nearly as surprising as he wants it to be.

Entirely unbidden, his mind jumps to his old friend Fiddleford, who - as far as he knew, because it has been weeks since he had last seen the man - didn't know that Stan even _existed_.

He tells himself that the circumstances were different and not at all comparable. That it was simply a matter of whether his old friend needed to know or not, and that if the topic of - say, long-lost identical twins - had ever came up in casual conversation, Ford would have gladly told Fiddleford everything he knew.

He just doesn't know if he can believe it.

Ford lets out a breath, long and ragged. "Then, am I dead? Dying?"

**Excuse me?**

One of his many doctorates had been in folklore and mythology, an obvious decision after he realized just how useful they were for reference when the strange and impossible were concerned. Where supernatural phenomena were concerned, he had _expectations_.

"If I'm seeing the Ghost World," he clarifies, as patiently as he could given the circumstances. "Shouldn't I also have to be... somewhere in-between the living and the dead?"

 **Not how it works, Ford,** Stan says matter-of-fact.

Ford blinks. "Are... are you sure?"

**Who's the dead one here?**

He twitches at the dismissal. Well, _maybe_ , Ford thinks mutinously. But he could also produce several published, peer-reviewed papers that argued to the contrary, so who was the real winner here?

(...Yes, he knew full well that the realities of supernatural phenomenon did not in fact _have_ to line up with the speculations of outside researchers. But given the sheer amount of pages and months that had gone into his final thesis, could he be blamed for seeing it as a bit of a sore point?)

 **Honestly,** his brother says, **the way I figure it, you're just pulled along for the ride. At least, that's how it was with the kids.**

"That doesn't make sense," he argues, "just because we're momentarily inhabiting the same body doesn't mean our _souls_ are somehow connected enough for -"

 **Yeah, well, maybe.** Ford gets the vague sense of a shrug. **I don't know, that's just my best guess. It's not like being dead comes with a manual.**

...Right. _Right._

He lets out a breath. With how strangely at ease his brother had been about dying and becoming a ghost, it is easy to forget that Stan had spent the last decade or so years living a relatively normal life - or rather (because he couldn't imagine his brother being a relatively normal _anything_ ) one that did not involve a career of researching the supernatural.

To tell the truth, Ford doesn't understand much of this at all, everything to do with... the Ghost World and animals that had the capability to create their own mental human forms. In his research on ghosts and other restless spirits in his time here in Gravity Falls, he had never come across mention of anything like what he saw now.

All of that, he allowed, his brother understood more than himself.

But Ford _did_ know plenty about the undead in general, and it is one particular piece of knowledge that makes his gut twist painfully.

Because, his brother should not have the powers he does. Not so soon, not to this degree. This level of possession, access to this 'Ghost World' to the point that he could bring the living _into_ it... he couldn't determine what category of ghost his brother had become, and that in of itself is deeply alarming.

Power eroded away at the ties that connected a spirit to its humanity, its capacity for higher-level thinking, and ultimately, its ability to be anything more than a single-minded _obsession_ with resolving its own unfinished business, collateral damage and unfortunate bystanders be damned. Usually it took months - on rare occasions, a ghost could hang on for years.

And Stanley had become a terrifyingly powerful ghost, just hours after his death.

His brother didn't have much time left.

His brother didn't have much time left at all.

"I... might be able to help you there, Stanley," Ford says carefully. "I've encountered other ghosts before,"

There's a flicker of surprise. **... _Other_ ghosts?** Stan says skeptically. **Are you tellin' me this is a common thing?**

He doesn't want to explain this. Any of this. But he has to, if he doesn't want his brother to become something like the category ten ghosts he had encountered in this town, mindless horrors held together by sorrow and rage, unable to ever find true rest.

"I wouldn't say _common_. But this has been what I have been doing, all these years in this town - researching the paranormal, investigating the weirdness that most people don't believe exist." Ford pauses. "And... I think there's something you need to know, about what happened to you."

 **...Yeah?** His brother says, a note of confusion in his voice.

"Ghosts come into existence when a person dies in great turmoil," he says carefully, "often when there is much in their life that was left unresolved."

Ford takes a breath. "But the dead really isn't meant to remain in the world of the living. It's a... deeply lonely existence. The longer you stay, the worse it will get for you. With time, you begin to deteriorate, getting further and further from who you were in life. From humanity in general. Until you become something truly monstrous."

 **...Monstrous, huh** , Stan says tonelessly **.**

"Stanley, I'm _sorry_ about what I did to you. About what I said to you. And I'm - well aware that nothing I can say will make you believe me. But as you exist now, you're anchored to the world by the unfinished business you carry."

He digs his nails into the flesh of his palms. "You need to resolve what's still holding you to this world, and let go. To pass on and... be at peace."

 **Look, Sixer,** Stan says after a brief pause, sounding mildly bewildered. **I appreciate the sentiment, even as, uh. Hippie as it is. But I think you're missing something important here -**

"Your unfinished business," Ford interrupts, trying and failing to keep desperation from his voice. "Tell me the truth, Stanley. You want revenge, don't you?"

His brother goes quiet.

"You want revenge on - " He can't bring himself to say what he actually means to say. "...On the person who killed you."

There's a long pause.

 **Yeah** , Stan says, something dark in his voice. **I guess you can say that.**

Just hearing those words make something in the pit of Ford's stomach twist uncomfortably.

"I can help you," he says, voice clear.

The drop of a pin could be heard in the silence that ensues.

 **You -** His brother sounds entirely taken aback. There's disbelief in his voice, mixed with something else that he can't put his finger on.

**You really wanna to help me with that?**

Ford tries his best not to look at the children - cats - _children_ watching the two of them with wide eyes.

"Of course I do," he says, as steadily as he could.

_**Oh.** _

"But there's just one last thing I need to finish before that, Stanley," Ford says, trying to keep his voice as calm as he could. He tells himself that he would be killing two birds with one stone ( _quite literally,_ he thinks morbidly _._ ) After all, there were some places even Bill couldn't get to.

And maybe... there was something very appropriate about choosing to go in this way.

"And after that, you can do anything you want to do with me."

**Wait. Wait, hang on -**

"Whatever you need to, to let go."

There's a long, breathless silence.

He steels himself. Whatever is coming, he deserves it.

 **Ford,** his brother says, disbelief clear in his voice. **What the fuck are you _talking_ about?**

That.

That had not at all been in the script.

Ford opens his mouth slowly, entirely unsure of how to respond and maybe feeling obligated to give the universe a few seconds to rectify its mistake, when an excited squeal splits the air.

_You said it!_

**Oh _fuck_ ,** Stan says with dawning horror. Then, **Oh shit,I said it again -**

Mabel jumps to her feet, her mouth open in an 'o' of excitement.  She nudges her brother frantically in the shoulder.

 _Dipper,_ Dipper -

Okay, okay, _fine_ , her brother groans, and hands her something small and shiny.  You win this one, alright?

Wait, Stan says slowly. ... _ **Hang on.**_ **What was that? In your hand?**

A beat.

 **Were _,_** he says, voice strangled. **Were you kids _betting_ on how long it was gonna take me to slip up?**

 _Yep!_ Mabel says cheerfully, at the exact same time Dipper stammers,  No, of course not!

Chaos breaks loose almost immediately.

Ford's ears ring impossibly as three voices that are entirely unrooted in physical reality and sound attempt to speak over each other at the exact same time.

It was all Mabel's idea - 

_Yeah right, Dip-dop, pretend all you want when_ you _were the one who came up with -_

 **When did you two even _learn_ this stuff? **Stan demands, a dangerous note in his voice. **I know _I_ didn't teach you any of this.**

Turns out, people swear at cats a lot, the boy offers with a shrug. I don't mind. It's actually kind of funny. 

_Say more, say more!_ Mabel chants, pumping her fists excitedly. Her eyes widen in realization. _Wait, does that mean we're allowed to say them too now?_

**What - _no!_**

She booes loudly. _Stan, we have rights!_

 **For Pete's sake,** he grouses. **Kids, this really isn't the time -**

...That one doesn't sound like a real swear either. Is that a real swear? Dipper scrunches his face in thought.  Who's Pete?

"They've - they've never heard you swear?" Ford says blankly, the sound of his physical voice rising just slightly over the mental cacophony. "Is _that_ what all of this is about?"

 **They're kids,** his brother replies, sounding deeply pained. **They're like - ten years old, I wasn't gonna unload my sailor's mouth in front of them. ...Little did I know they've been _screwing_ with me for God knows how long -**

Technically, we're 56 in human years, Dipper says philosophically. I did the math and everything.

Not mentally, kid, we've talked about this -

"But -" Ford tries again, trying to wrap his mind around it all. "For ten _years_ -"

 **For fuck's sake, Ford,** his brother groans, **is it too hard for you to believe that I have a little something called self-control?**

For fuck's sake! Mabel repeats happily.

The world freezes for one horrified moment.

"Nope," Stan says with Ford's voice, sounding just vaguely panicked. " _Nope."_

Their surroundings - _shift_ , somehow, and the translucent blue quality of it begins to leach out of the walls, leaving plain wood in its wake.

Ford can't pinpoint when exactly the change happens, or if what happens before his eyes could be _called_ a change by most definitions. But all at once, the sensations of reality - the brisk breeze in the room, the rustling of leaves outside - hit him like a punch in the gut. Suddenly, the children are gone, leaving two yowling cats scrabbling on the ground.

"Fun's over," his brother announces, and picks up the cats - children - _cats_ by the scruff of their necks, one in each hand. "This conversation has officially reached a 'no kids' zone."

They mew indignantly and bat rather ineffectually at Ford's face. He marches them into the hallway before letting them go, and blocks the door with their body.

" _Stay here._ " Stan stomps on the ground twice for emphasis.

"Maybe a bit further from the door?" Ford offers, in the breath right afterwards. "The walls can be quite thin -"

"Oh, right. Maybe here then." He stomps again, at a spot a foot away.

Dipper and Mabel stare at them for a long moment, with the particularly devastating kind of flat judgement only cats could give. Then, in unison, they turn tail and run off in the opposite direction.

Before either Stan and Ford can react in time, they're out of sight.

 **...I really didn't think that through,** Stan says to themselves.

"Don't go down into the basement!" Ford shouts after them.

They stand there in silence for a moment..

"Should - should we go after them?"

**No use. We're not finding them unless they want us to.**

"Oh."

It's a strange moment they share. There's an odd intimacy to it, as if all airs and defenses around them had been stripped away by the pure absurdity of the past few minutes.

 **So,** Stan says hesitantly. **About what you were saying back then.**

"I'm sorry I killed you," Ford blurts, the words coming out all at once. He grips the warm metal of the doorknob like a lifeline.

**...Uh.**

"It was an accident. I - didn't know the brand was there, Stanley -"

**Okay, okay, wait, I think I see what's going on here _-_ **

"I just needed you to let go of my journal, and I just wasn't -"

**Sixer, I get it. _Stop_.**

Ford goes a startled kind of quiet.

 **...You know, for some reason, I thought you already knew,** Stan says slowly, an odd note in his voice. **I mean, I wasn't exactly trying to hide it when I came in. Did you even _look_ at me? **

"...What?"

His brother lets out a sigh. **You didn't kill me, Ford.**

Now it's his turn to be confused out of his mind.

"But," Ford tries. "Everything that had happened downstairs -"

 **All you did with that brand was exorcise me out of my own corpse, permanently.** Stan pauses thoughtfully. **...Though I guess it's pretty much the same thing, functionally.**

He blinks. "But, you - you would have to have already been a ghost to be exorcised, Stanley."

 **Yeah.** His brother lets the silence stick around for a moment. **So about that.**

...Ford isn't stupid, even in the rare occasions when he really, really wants to be.

"When did it happen?" He asks, voice carefully blank.

His thoughts are already racing. Ford had never heard of a ghost possessing their own recently dead corpse, but nothing he knew ruled it out as a possibility.

Yet in the 20/20 vision of hindsight, his brother had looked pale and sunken, but he had not looked _dead_. His movements had been smooth and precise, not the lurching steps of zombies struggling with the physical realities of their rotted remains. There had been no odor, no other sign of decay.

Which meant whatever had happened, it must have happened recently. Very recently. And Ford had sent that postcard more than a week ago... hadn't he?

**Ten years ago.**

He hadn't thought there was an answer that was worse than the one he was already expecting.

Ford laughs uncomfortably. "That's impossible, you - you couldn't have died ten years ago, we're only thirty now, for God's sake -"

**As it turns out, life isn't fair.**

"It's - ten years just isn't possible," he blurts out without thinking. "Ghosts can't stop the processes of rigor mortis and natural decay, even on bodies they're possessing -"

 **Well, I'm sure you know better than I would** , Stan says sarcastically. **Guess I'm lucky that I've been too much of an idiot this whole time to figure that out, huh?**

Ford winces. "That's not what I meant, Stanley. It's just - in all my research on ghosts and phenomenon related to undead spirits, I've never encountered... I'm just trying to understand what happened."

 **...You wanna know what happened, Sixer?** His brother says, something unreadable in his voice. Something dangerous. **Because I can tell you.** **I can tell you everything you wanna know.**

The breath catches in his throat. On some deep, visceral level, he knows he doesn't want to know, that this was the kind of knowledge that haunts.

He nods anyways.

 **I was twenty years old** , Stan says, **and I got in over my head. I pissed off people I shouldn't have pissed off.** His voice goes deceptively light. **So one night, one of them came and shot me to death.**

Ford flinches. He doesn't know what to say.

 **...Woke up cold sometime after that, hitching a ride with a pair of stray kittens from the alley I died in. Spent some time amnesiac, thinking I was a regular stray like them.** Stan pauses. **Simple kind of - life, if you could call it that. Happy.**

His voice darkens. **Then I remembered what had happened to me, and I haven't felt warm since.**

A thousand thoughts whirl around in Ford's head, and none of them makes him particularly happy. Something stands out, however.

"The kids," he says quietly. "They were the strays from the alley."

 **...Yeah,** his brother says slowly. The question seems to have thrown him off-guard. **Yeah, they were. They -** He hesitates. **They invited me in, y'know? They were really just kittens, couldn't have been more than two months old, and - I must have been terrifying, some moaning, groaning voice in their heads.**

His brother goes a bit quiet, and when he speaks again, there's an odd little note in his voice. **And they reached out a hand to me.**

It explains a lot about the easy closeness between Stanley and those children, how little it took for his brother to get defensive on their behalf. Ford lets out a breath, something like warm gratitude bubbling up in the core of him.

"Who did that to you?" He asks quietly.

He doesn't know what he would do with that knowledge. Ford had never purposefully harmed a person, had never considered himself a particularly violent man.

All he knows is that there's a voice in his head running on repeat, saying over and over again that there was someone in this world that had hurt his brother, that had _killed_ his brother - and through the crushing relief that came with knowing that it wasn't Ford himself who did it, there was a deep desperation to do something about it.

 **You know him. What's-his-name. Bill**.

Stan's reply doesn't register for a moment, so entirely out of the blue it is. Ford's mind goes blank.

_"What?"_

**You said that was his name, right?** **Bill? Your guy with the yellow eyes.**

"He's not my guy with the -" Ford cuts himself off. "Yes, that's his name. But... he _couldn't_ have killed you ten years ago, Stanley."

It must be a mistake, or some kind of misunderstanding, because it wasn't _possible_ -

 **Yeah?** The disbelief in Stan's voice is almost palpable. **And why do ya say that?**

Because Bill had only been summoned into this world several years ago. Because he held no physical form in this reality. Because Stanley had nothing to do with the grander workings of the universe and the demon should have no reason at all to target him, to _kill_ him.

And the deep nausea he felt just at the thought that Bill might have murdered Stanley ten years ago (and he hadn't known, _God_ , he hadn't known his own twin had been dead all this time -) and had gone on to become Ford's muse anyways, to become Ford's best friend for what had felt like eternity at the time...

That had nothing to do with it. Not at all.

**You got something you wanna share to the class?**

There is nothing he can say. Nothing he can explain, not without unearthing a lot of regrets and mistakes he had no desire to share - let alone with his estranged twin brother, let alone with the capricious spirit taking up residence in his mind and body.

Not without admitting to Stanley the deep connection he held with the creature he believed responsible for his murder.

Ford lets out a breath. "...No, it's nothing," he mutters.

 **Riiight,** his brother says flatly, but doesn't push. **You said downstairs that you knew where he is.**

He bristles slightly. "I never said I -"

**But you know where I can find him.**

He hesitates. He doubts his brother is looking for an answer like 'the Nightmare Realm, a rotting prison of a dimension that exists outside of the constraints of our known universe.'

 **I get that you don't wanna tell me,** Stan says after a moment, and he doesn't think he's imagining the tinge of bitterness in his tone.

"It's not that I don't want to," Ford began. "It's a very complicated situation -"

**But you're the best lead I've found in ten years. So how about a deal, Sixer?**

He twitches. Ford... hasn't exactly had the best run with those in the past. And there's something about the phrasing that sends a chill down his back.

"...What are you proposing?"

 **Tell me where Bill is,** his brother says simply, **and I'll leave you alone.**

"What... what does that mean?"

**Anything you want it to. I'll stay out of your body. Stay outta your life. You won't have to hear from me ever again.**

Ford swallows. It wouldn't _technically_ be a lie, he tells himself. And, he's almost certain that he can find an answer to give about Bill's whereabouts that satisfied Stan without bringing forth the death of the known universe.

And if it meant getting his body and mind back again...

"Yes," he says, trying to keep his voice steady. "I agree to those terms. And after that..."

He tells himself that this is the time to define the terms, that he should want his volatile, vengeful ghost of a brother as far away from himself as possible. Stanley was dead now, and that wasn't going to change. The time for changing things had passed long ago, and it was Ford's own fault that he hadn't done anything when he could.

_But._

Ford can't help but think about Mabel proudly showing off her six-fingered hands, and he wonders if that is the truth after all.

"...We can talk about it after you return to your own body," he says finally.

His brother doesn't reply for a suspiciously long moment.

"Is - is there something I should know?"

**...Nah, it's nothing.**

"I see," Ford says slowly, but doesn't push.

It's an odd sensation, feeling his brother cede control over his body but still very much _there_ , somewhere in the back of his mind.

The return of control comes with pins and needles at first and then like water, cool and rejuvenating, as if those parts of his body are slowly coming back to life.

He takes one step, slow and careful.

Then his knees buckle, hard.

They fall forward with a yelp of surprise, and neither of them reacts fast enough to catch themselves fully. Ford's shoulder knocks painfully into the hard wood of the floor.

The two of them lie there for a long moment, crumpled on the ground, listening to the loud sound of their own panting breaths. It's in this moment that the sensations of life creep up to him, all the gnawing pain of hunger and mental wooziness of sleep deprivation. He's exhausted and starving, and it feels - so, so hard to even _think_.

There's a brief silence.

 **Ford?** His brother asks, something unreadable in his voice.

He takes in a breath, lets it out slowly. "Yes, Stanley."

 **How long has it been since you've eaten?** A significant pause. **Or slept?**

Ford's mind goes blank, which in hindsight, is not a very good sign.

"Er," he says. "That - depends."

**On?**

"What day is it?"

 **...Right** , Stan says after a long pause.

He sighs. **Well, we've got one living body between the two of us, and I'll be damned if it drops down to zero. Change of plans. We're going into town to get your life together, and _then_ we'll figure out everything else. Sounds good to you, Sixer?**

"Hmrg."

**...I'll take that as a yes.**


	7. casting shadows, the sun was pushing through

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof, it's been a while. there was a whole term of college and tbh, i've been kind of losing interest in the fandom as of late
> 
> but i'm gonna keep writing until the bitter end
> 
> sorry for any oddness

There's someone staring at him from across the diner. A waitress, to be more precise, squinting at him suspiciously under heavy purple eyeshadow, a sharp twist to her expression that even his tired mind can read immediately as 'trouble.'

Ford's fairly certain that he has never met her in his life. But then again, his life hasn't been entirely his for several months now.

 **Lady over there's giving ya a real stinker of a look**.

He can't help but start at the echo of Stan's voice in his head. It's... not something he's used to, hearing his brother in what used to be the domain of someone - some _thing_ entirely different.

He thinks maybe it's something he will ever get used to.

**You stiffed her on tips before or what?**

Now that Ford thinks about it... no, yes, he _had_ made a visit to this establishment once before. He's sure of it. It had been shortly after Fiddleford had left him, and around when Bill had decided to up the ante where psychological torment was involved. The memory of being surrounded by a dozen pairs of yellow-slitted eyes flashes before his mind's eye, and he grimaces despite himself.

Had this woman been there for that disaster of an attempted breakfast? Did she remember him from his frantic escape?

Not for the first time, he's thankful that for all of his brother's abilities, he either could not - or did not at all want to - read Ford's thoughts.

His left hand lifts itself up and flicks his nose, hard.

Ford flinches, more out of surprise and confusion than any real pain. It takes him a moment to make sense of what had just happened.

"Stanley _-_ "

 **'Stanley' yourself,** his brother says flatly, entirely unamused. **You've been sitting for a full ten minutes in this place without moving a muscle. Have ya ever heard of ordering food when you're in a restaurant? Or is that something hermit scientists don't do?**

Ford bristles. "I know perfectly well how to order food, I just haven't done it yet because the waitress has been _staring_ at me for the past -"

He blinks, looks again.

In the span of this extremely distracting exchange, said waitress had disappeared entirely from his view.

Ford's mental alarm bells go off almost immediately.

He had long held suspicions about the local townspeople, which were only exacerberated by the recent appearance of mysterious hooded figures around town. And, considering that Bill was perfectly able and entirely willing to manipulate other people to get to him, being around anyone at all was a security breach of the highest magnitude..

The waitress had seen and recognized him. She must have noted that he was here, vulnerable and out in the open without any of the defensive measures he had set up around his home.

There is just one reason he can think of for her disappearing so immediately, and that was to share that information with others.

He knew this was a terrible idea, Ford thinks, heart racing.

He _knew_ , but his brother just wouldn't listen to logic and sense (but why would he, when for all Stanley must have thought, Ford was just being paranoid? Because he couldn't know, not about the extent of Bill's powers, not about what had happened to Fiddleford, not about everything that Ford had been manipulated into being a part of -)

Ford needed to leave, the sooner the better. There was no telling how much time he had left before they - whoever they was, whether the hooded figures or a pawn of Bill or something he had not even _anticipated_ \- used his vulnerability to their advantage. He had to -

"Are those wild animals in your coat, mister?" Says a voice right behind him, far too close for comfort.

Ford jolts forward with a sharp noise of surprise that he refuses to call a squeak.

When he twists his head back, eyes wide, the waitress is staring back with a scrunched Look of deep disapproval. He thinks somewhat stupidly that the heavy magenta eyeshadow added magnitudes more to its power.

For a moment, his brain just doesn't process the words.

"Wild - wild animals?" He repeats.

She points down at the two furry heads poking out from the neck of his old trenchcoat.

Mabel - he thinks, it's not nearly as easy to tell the two apart as cats than as children - offers a single cheerful meow.

Ford stares down at them, speechless. He... had entirely forgotten they were there. How had he forgotten about two live animals tucked inches away from his own body?

"We don't allow animals in here," the waitress says with a frown. "Got a sign on the door and everything."

She points at it for emphasis. He stares after her finger for a moment too long, expression slack.

The waitress squints at him. "You alright there, mister?"

 **Ford,** Stanley says flatly, **you're useless.**

Just like that, his mouth stretches into an entirely unfamiliar kind of grin, slow and flirtatious, the kind of expression Ford doesn't think he has ever made in his life.

"Sure I am, sugar," Stan says smoothly. There's an easy confidence to his words that's enough to make Ford feel just a twinge of envy. "I would ask ya the same thing, uh -" He squints at the messy scrawl on the woman's name tag. "- _Susan_. But I gotta say, it looks to me like you're doing just _fine._ "

He winks. Ford cringes.

The waitress - Susan, he reminds himself - stares at them for a long moment, looking very flustered. Understandably, Ford thinks to himself, considering that from all appearances, he had switched gears from 'confused' to 'Casanova' at the drop of a hat.

"See, I think there's a little bit of a misunderstandin' here."

"How so, mister?"

"This is a family diner, yeah?" Stanley says. He gestures at the door. "Says it right there. 'Greasy's, for the whole family.' Right above that sign about wild animals."

He squints. "Why - why do you have that sign about wild animals anyways?"

Susan blinks. "Well," she says after a moment, "whaddaya know, it sure does!"

"So thing is. These two here, they ain't 'wild animals.'" His brother pauses, for what Ford highly suspects is just for dramatic emphasis. "They're _family."_

Her eyes widen. Her jaw drops.

Stan leans in closer slyly, going for the kill. "And this can't be a family diner if the whole family can't eat, right?"

In the privacy of his own mind, Ford lets out a deep sigh. This... was entirely ridiculous. It spoke magnitudes about Stanley that he had thought it would actually _work_. Everything else aside, they had snuck two full-grown cats into a dining establishment in their coat. There were - there were rules against these things, he was sure, rules that he doubted a waitress would -

"Oh hon," Susan chirps, and slaps them on the back hard enough that they choke on their own spit. "Ya should have said somethin' earlier!"

In the span of what feels like a second, the woman's demeanor had transformed entirely. Easy understanding had replaced suspicion on her broad face, and there was a new friendliness to the way she held herself.

"For a moment there, I figured you were one of those characters that come in marrying woodpeckers and kissing raccoons -"

"One of those -" Ford chokes. "Marrying _what_?"

"- but I can tell now, you're nothin' like 'em. Heck, I can already tell what you are!"

A chill goes down their back, and he doesn't know if it's from him or Stan. Maybe it doesn't matter.

"And," Ford says slowly, with a tone of vague concern, "what is - that?"

"A kindred spirit, handsome!" Susan winks like she doesn't know how to.

"...Oh."

 **Aaaaaalright** , Stan announces, **I did the heavy lifting. You're on your own now, Sixer.**

 _Wait_ -

Somehow, he can tell that his brother is studiously ignoring him. Ford sighs.

"Family! What a perfect way of puttin' it!" Susan gushes. "You're right, why keep 'em cooped up in there? Let your kitties stretch their legs!"

"Are - are you sure that's alright?" He starts to ask, an eyebrow raised. "The sign -"

"Oh hun, this is _Gravity Falls_ ," She scoffs. "Just about everyone around here has seen much, much worse in this diner, I bet ya."

That... did absolutely nothing to ease his worries. Ford nods dumbly, more than slightly alarmed by the casual revelation.

The cats stretch out on the diner table, low and lazy. Which... probably wasn't hygienic, but considering the stains and flecks of unknown substance already present when he had sat down, he supposed a few animal hairs wouldn't do much worse to the establishment's bacterial ecosystem.

Mabel, or at least he _thinks_ it's her, looks between him and Susan. She gives him the feline version of a wink. Ford looks at her in horror.

"What are their names?" Susan asks, drawing close, a soft expression on her face. "Your sweet little fur babies."

"They're my niece and nephew, actually," he corrects quickly, edging away, and realizes too late how odd that statement came out without the benefit of context. "But, ah. Dipper and Mabel."

Susan doesn't seem to mind the slip-up, however. In fact, judging by the extra sparkle in her eyes, that only seemed to endear him to her even more.

"Well, _my_ oldest is Mr. Snookums," she says conspiratorially. "He's getting up there in years, maybe just a year or two older than your kitties here. And then there's Mittens, except she's the kind of lady that likes ta put a twist on things, so lately she's been trying out something new. Look, I've got pictures!"

Ford blanches.

 

* * *

 

It's after noon when Ford peers through the window of the local grocery store with an air of dawning apprehension. No one inside but a lanky teenager with a stunningly large cranium, manning the cash register with an almost physical air of general rebelliousness.

Ford swallows. "Stanley, are you sure it's fine to, ah -"

 **Relax, poindexter,** his brother groans. **I take the kids everywhere I go, and _I've_ never run into any trouble. **

Very carefully, Ford wonders if that was less about the actual regulations in place and much, much more about nobody wanting to tell a certain casually terrifying individual that he needed to leave his pets outside.

**Besides, bringing the cats worked out fine in the diner, right?**

"That doesn't count," he retorts immediately. "That woman was - she was _obsessed_ with cats, Stanley, I didn't even _know_ half the things she was talking about., and we talked for two _hours._ "

**Hey, I'm not seeing how that's a bad thing.**

"Two. Hours."

 **Hell, _I_ didn't even know the 'not having a collarbone' thing. I mean, it's not like the kids would have known about that. Though, **Stan says thoughtfully, **that definitely explains some of the crazy places they've gotten into over the ears.**

"If you enjoyed it so much," Ford snips, "perhaps _you_ should have spoken to her instead."

**Nah. By the looks of you, Sixer, you haven't talked to another human being for a loooong time. Better a nice lady with a whole lot to say about cats than, uh. Mr. Potato Head inside there.**

" _Stanley._ "

**What? I call it when I see it. Guy's head is disproportional.**

Ford lets out a long sigh, and carefully does not admit that his brother was right about Susan. The social interaction had been overwhelming and occasionally bewildering, but it had been - a comforting sort of normal, in a way that nothing in his world had been for a very long time now.

Just chatting with a waitress in a diner about the best way to brush a cat. Nothing like his angry confrontation with Fiddleford, or the conversations he had with Bill that just thinking about made him reel with self-disgust. Nothing like everything that had happened since his brother had shown up at his door, just yesterday.

He walks into the store with his back straight, carefully ignoring the furry ears rubbing against his chin.

Then just as Ford steps over the doorway, there's a loud welcome chime.

He flinches, and jerks back with so much force that he knocks over the store display right next to him.

The cardboard figure hits the ground with a too loud _thwap_. The teenaged cashier glances up at him, a strangely intense look in his eyes.

"Apologies," Ford says stiffly, and awkwardly moves to stand it back up.

**What the hell was that?**

"I didn't expect the sound," he admits reluctantly.

"Who are you talking to?" The teenager asks, an odd look on his face. His voice is an entirely unexpected baritone, one that fits his craggy face but is strange with his frame **.**

"No one," Ford says, a bit too quickly. "Just - ah, just wanted to hear the sound of my own voice -"

**Ford, shut up and just keep walking.**

He does clumsily, and almost trips over his own feet. The cashier's stare feels heavy on his back all the way.

**So. Grocery shopping. You want some of uh. Eggs, or something? Cheese? People buy cheese, right?**

"...Stanley?"

**You're on your own for this, pal. Look, I'm dead. I haven't had to eat for a long, long time. Thank God, because from what I remember hunger was uh.**

A long, telling pause.

**Not fun at all.**

Ford looks up, and then even further up at the cans and boxes that line the shelves and seem almost to reach up to the ceiling. There's oats, then organic oats, then something about added sugar or reduced sodium and -

"I'm a bit rusty with grocery shopping myself," he confesses.

 **What** , Stan says skeptically, **you** **would rather eat out, now that you've got a college degree and big science money?**

"Stanley, I told you, that's not how research funding _works_. I can't just spend that money on anything I want - "

Ford cuts himself off before he can go on the whole rant. He has a sneaking suspicion that telling his undead brother about the intricacies of research grants and scientific stipends was pointless.

"No," he says instead, voice clipped. "I just didn't eat."

His brother goes quiet at that. **...Well, all I know how to buy is food for the kids, and as horrible as I'm guessing your eating habits are I doubt you wanna get cat food -**

Ford coughs. "Yes, not cat food would be good."

**...You want stuff that doesn't go bad quickly, right? Canned stuff would be good for that, you can probably figure out how to fry bacon or something for the extra protein. Hell, you know what, eggs aren't a bad idea. And maybe some uh, green stuff. Vegetables. Spinach, kale, whatever.**

"Stanley -"

**Eh, what do responsible adults eat? Hell if I know.**

"Stanley, that's - a great deal of food," he says carefully.

**That's the point, Sixer.**

"The issue is, ah. I can't afford all of that."

There's a long silence.

 **You can't - afford all of that** , Stan says blankly. **Like, you don't got enough money for it?**

"Y-Yes, that's usually what it means to not be able to afford something -"

 **But you _have_ money,** his brother argues uncomprehendingly. **You went to college, didn't ya? Isn't that what going to college is for?**

Ford blinks, entirely thrown off-guard. "No, that's -" He starts off weakly, and then goes quiet with sudden realization.

He had been away from his family for years now, keeping the bare minimum of contact. So it had been easy to forget, surrounded by other college students and even more educated professors, that his household had always held a very fundamental misunderstanding of what higher education entailed.

Filbrick Pines had lived his entire life working for a living, and the idea of putting effort into studying something with no direct financial reward was entirely disjointed from his reality. Ford had smiled (grimaced, if he had to be entirely truthful) along with his father's loud boasts about how his boy was going to make the whole family rich, that his college admission meant they were all set for life.

It had been easier then to just stay quiet. Though, of course, that just meant the inevitable fallout was just that much more explosive.

But Stanley hadn't been there. He had left home long before Filbrick realized that Ford's research grants weren't free money, before the big argument that had ended with Ford admitting that no, his studies weren't going to make them rich, not any time soon, and _no_ , that was never what college was for. Not for him, and he had gotten his degree for himself, not anyone else.

Which meant, this whole time, his brother had thought -

"Going to college didn't make me rich," Ford says at last. "It was... almost the opposite, really. Backupsmore gave me a full scholarship, but I had to take out loans and work on the side to eat and pay for textbooks. I got money to come out here for my research, and I suppose it's a large enough amount as a lump sum. But I need to justify all of my expenditures to the committee that approved me, and..."

He smiles wryly. "As it turns out, research scientists don't prioritize 'quality of life' too highly."

**...Huh.**

The words had come out almost terrifyingly easy, and it hits Ford suddenly that it's the most he's told his brother about his life in their years apart in... well. Very possibly ever. It's an odd feeling, one that comes with something like regret and slightly more like panic.

But mostly like relief.

 **Geez** , Stan says suddenly, **you could've just said so earlier. And here I thought you were stuck on an actual problem.**

"An actual problem," Ford repeats blankly. "So you're saying this _isn't_ an actual problem."

**Sure. We can just steal.**

A beat.

"You," Ford says, horrified, "want to do _what_?"

His voice cuts off suddenly, entirely out of his control.

 **You wanna say that any louder?** Stan groans. **Trust me,** **Mr. Potato Head doesn't want to care, but keep shouting about robbing this place and he's gonna have to.**

"Don't call him tha - Stanley, I refuse to _steal_ ," Ford hisses under his breath, entirely scandalized.

 **Eh, suit yourself,** his brother mutters casually, _too_ casually. **There's a loaf of bread down your shirt, by the way. And half a dozen oranges up your sleeve.**

He freezes. "How did you - _when_ did you -"

**Don't ask questions you don't want answers to, pal.**

" _Stanley._ "

Stan hesitates, then sighs.

**Look, I didn't have to eat, but I had to feed the kids somehow. And it wasn't like I was getting any kind of real job, with how I look. You figured out a way to make the system work for you, and guess what? So did I. Maybe it isn't as pretty. Or as legal.**

He's quiet, for a moment.

**...But it works. So shut it, alright?**

Hearing that makes Ford's mouth goes dry. For the second that day, it hits him just how thankful he is that Stan can't hear his thoughts.

"Alright," he says hoarsely. "Do what you have to do."

 

* * *

 

"There's something wrong," Ford says quietly, about thirty minutes after they leave the store with something like a week's groceries stuffed in various pockets and folds.

Not about the stealing. The cashier - 'Ivan', as his name-tag introduced him as with an unfitting cheerfulness - hadn't looked twice at him when he paid for a single carton of eggs to keep up appearances. He hadn't seemed at all thrown off by his meager purchase, or even the two cats peeking out from the neck of his coat.

But there was a strange intensity in the way he had stared after him as he left, It reminded him of the looks the townspeople had given him on the streets that morning, how some of the other diner customers had turned to glance at his table as he talked to Susan and ate an uncomfortably filling breakfast.

"I'm being watched."

 **What, like right now?** Stan says skeptically.

"No, this - this whole day. People have been staring at me. Following my movements."

 **Ford, you haven't showered in a week, you've got two full-grown cats hitching a ride in your coat, and as far as everyone's concerned you've been talkin' to yourself this whole time,** Stan says flatly, sounding distinctly unimpressed.

"Still -"

**Honestly, Sixer, I would be shocked if people _weren't_ staring at you.**

That... was true.

But...

For just a moment, Ford hesitates, ready to argue -

\- and doesn't.

He lets out a sigh. He's tired, the bone-deep exhaustion and general stress of the past several months hitting him all at once.

Ford... doesn't want to think, _can't_ think. Not right now.

"You're right," he says at last. "Let's go home."

They do, but it's Stan who pilots their body for most of it.

He's the one who gets the groceries put away and cooks an omelette that turns into scrambled eggs somewhere along the way, on a range that sputters and dies before the liquid gets all the way solid (Ford scarfs it down anyways - he's facing a host of much more immediate dangers than salmonella.) He piles firewood that Ford had completely forgot he still had into the fireplace, and struggles to light the flames with a box of soggy, year-old matches.

It ends with him curled up on the least destroyed armchair he has, moth-bitten blanket clumsily draped over himself, two warm bodies snuggled in and purring on his lap.

Somewhere distantly, he wonders if, just maybe, he had forgotten something.

With the fireplace roaring just a few feet away and the feeling of soft fur under his hands, Ford doesn't even notice when he falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mmm not the best move there, fordsy
> 
> next time on super miscommunication bros: ultimate -
> 
> mindscape shenanigans!! and the long-awaited return of bill (but which one?)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm dubsdeedubs on Tumblr and doobie#8354 on Discord, I love to talk and get things thrown at me - hit me up!
> 
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